


in the mouth of the sun

by archekoeln



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: 100 word drabbles, F/F, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, POV Alternating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:47:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27492151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archekoeln/pseuds/archekoeln
Summary: Magic bends with their will because Emilie’s charm is in the way she kisses the air, uncompelled but open; with a mouthful of stars, cheeks stuffed with light spilling over her lips. Each kiss is light and wet, a pop, an explosion, not unlike the creation of black holes and new universes. Her teeth grind stars into dust;stardust, ha!,and when she swallows, the world just makes it all over again.
Relationships: Emilie Agreste/Gabriel Agreste | Papillon | Hawk Moth, Emilie Agreste/Gabriel Agreste | Papillon | Hawk Moth/Nathalie Sancoeur, Emilie Agreste/Nathalie Sancoeur, Gabriel Agreste | Papillon | Hawk Moth/Nathalie Sancoeur
Comments: 8
Kudos: 21





	in the mouth of the sun

**Author's Note:**

> so i'm reposting two previously posted drabbles into one with a few edits, adding a few paragraphs and changing the title. also may be my attempt at trying out 100 word drabbles because the cool kids are doing it.
> 
> unbeta'd. also, google docs told me this is exactly 1.8k words so I don't know what's wrong with ao3. 
> 
> disclaimer for implied sexual content.

Emilie’s sunburnt skin is kissed by plump, red lips. She enjoys the feeling— butterfly kisses trailing her neck, her collarbone, down to her chest and the skin between her breasts. It leaves her breathless, wanting. It leaves her aching. It leaves her empty and full, and then empty and full all over. 

Nathalie tells her that she tastes like peaches and pomegranates. When she licks her lips, full and swollen with love, Emilie titters with excitement. She isn’t Nathalie’s to take, but she is stolen all the same.

When Nathalie kisses her, through skin and teeth and lips, Emilie unravels.

* * *

November arrives with a gift. Rain falls and everything is baptised by nature. 

Emilie watches the world with renewed interest. Each drop fascinates her to no end.

Nathalie arrives and settles her head on the crook of Emilie’s shoulder. When her hands find refuge on Emilie’s waist, it lingers. The small of her back is bare, skin adorned by a sprinkling of dark freckles.

Electricity claws its way from the bottom of Emilie’s spine as Nathalie’s fingers trail up to her back, up to her nape, drawing hearts along the way. 

The world blurs and Emilie forgets about the rain.

* * *

Morning dew washes dawn away and Nathalie is cotton-mouthed and lethargic as Emilie wakes beside her, whispers a faint ‘ _I love you’_ with kisses trailing the edges of her lips.

Her mouth tastes like satsuma oranges when she says ‘ _I love you’_ back. It tastes like metal, as she breathes the salty air, at their cottage by the sea, as she mumbles Emilie’s name like a mantra, a prayer. It tastes like sweetened rice wine as she bends and twists to accommodate Emilie’s ferocity. 

It tastes something like passion, as she comes undone, quivering above Emilie.

It tastes like love. 

* * *

They call her _Paonne._ Nathalie calls her Emilie.

They call her _Mariposa._ Emilie calls her Nathalie.

Magic bends against their will because Emilie’s charm is in the way she kisses the air, uncompelled but open; with a mouthful of stars, cheeks stuffed with light spilling over her lips. Each kiss is light and wet, a pop, an explosion, not unlike the creation of black holes and new universes. Her teeth grind stars into dust; _stardust, ha!,_ and when she swallows, the world just makes it all over again.

And Nathalie will do anything Emilie asks. 

Because? It’s love. 

It’s love.

* * *

Emilie notices that Nathalie is so soft; like an afterglow, like a newborn, with moonlight spilling across the creases of her face, fixed from work and from the stress of everything between them. 

Emilie counts the tired lines, draws them together when she feels like it, marks the ends with liquid liner. She makes wings, flicking her wrist, and god, Emilie wonders if she deserves this; when she leaves Nathalie to wallow in her sadness, ruining Nathalie’s smile, that crescent mouth pulled with an abundance of love.

She doesn’t push the Miraculous against Nathalie’s chest but Nathalie takes it anyway.

* * *

The first stirrings of dusk kiss Nathalie’s forehead and she is reminded of the sun leaving her. Somewhere far away, Emilie is watching, disappointed, because grief has stolen Nathalie’s life away. 

But Emilie is none the wiser to the windflowers and the cocoons. Butterflies flock and the world collapses around her. The sky burns an angry red and Nathalie stands on top of the ruins of Paris, waiting for a future that will never come.

Bruises formed purple along the underside of her hands from when she gripped Emilie’s brooch hard enough that she wished it would have broken instead. 

* * *

Nathalie wails in the empty air, broken and torn into pieces. 

‘Come back to me!’— over and over, with butterflies in her hands and grief and anger fueling her ambition, until the gods learn no peace from her insistence.

Until they are forced to acknowledge her wish.

The world stills and life and time and everything stops while she stays in her little cottage by the sea. Emilie doesn’t watch her, isn’t disappointed in her, because wishes made with grief are the easiest to grant and the gods know this.

They do not care. But then again, neither does she.

* * *

Because, from the very beginning, Nathalie knows she has been blinded by the sun. Emilie stood far too bright to be eclipsed by anything that Nathalie wonders if she will ever move on.

So she doesn’t. Paris continues to burn and _Mariposa_ continues to thrive. Her cottage by the sea remains empty and Nathalie keeps living as though nothing matters. The Peacock Miraculous still burns against her palms and she never stops wishing for the world to reset and bring back her Emilie.

She tries so much that, one day, the gods take from her more than they ever give.

* * *

The Agreste's are a beautiful couple, lovely and glamorous and sweet. They are daunting to be around and dreadful and harrowing to manage. Nathalie grows to enjoy their company and the challenge, and then, once he arrives, pushed into her arms, the company and challenge of their son.

She grows to accept that Emilie and Gabriel Agreste are gods in their own way and that their son is an angel. She accepts the role of mortal, scurrying beneath their feet, bruises, and broken ribs ignored just to lift herself up to their standards. 

She lives, even when she feels nothing.

* * *

The past repeats itself. Like clockwork, Emilie dies. Nathalie feels nothing.

This time, _this time,_ it’s Gabriel that mourns and holds the Peacock in his hand, wishing to break it into pieces. At the mere thought, it scorches his skin and marks his palm with desire and wrath and grief.

Soon, long after the wound has healed, Gabriel proposes an ultimatum. In his other hand is the Butterfly, glistening like the tears that have long since dried on his face. The kwami that appears dips his head at Nathalie first before he realizes that Gabriel has his brooch. 

Nooroo recoils.

* * *

Nathalie wakes at midday, feeling the earth spin beneath her heels. Her skin is pale and lifeless. She _feels_ pale and lifeless but the pull of work is strong even in her dreams. _Mayura_ rests at the soles of her feet, incapacitated. Duusu is inconsolable, hiding away.

She wishes that the brooch had never existed. It took Emilie away from Gabriel and it is slowly taking her away from… from what?

_But she feels nothing._

Maybe if she wishes hard enough, maybe if she works hard enough, maybe if she prays enough, Gabriel will be able to see Emilie again.

* * *

Emilie has sucked away the life of each individual living in the manor— from the father to the son, to Nathalie herself.

The chip in Nathalie’s cup cuts her lips. The blood that bubbles out is tiny and insignificant. Nathalie laps it up with her tongue, tastes the iron and the pain.

She remembers nothing about _Paonne_ and _Mariposa_ and a _Paris burning behind striking white windflowers and purple butterflies._ She only knows devotion chafing against her vertebrae and the unfamiliar touch of scarred hands and rough calluses on her sweat-slicked skin. 

She doesn’t know if it’s better that way.

* * *

She remembers nothing and that is a blessing in itself.

Because the fingers that snake over the small of her back, tracing languid paths up her spine is a familiar feeling that Nathalie wants to chase. Because Gabriel kisses her nape, holds her close, and thunder roars in her ears, deafening and painful. Because he turns her around and sucks away the life left in her, and she, knowing how he chases his own shadows, allows him the pleasure. 

Because their lips meet and when she tastes bitter scotch on his tongue, it takes everything in her not to cry.

* * *

Gabriel is slowly losing himself.

Hard enough that his son is drifting away, little by little, tainted by the freedom denied from him for so long. Hard enough that Emilie is rotting away, second by second, magic swallowing her from the world of the living. Hard enough that Nathalie is dying the same way, a beating heart under his fingers, under all her scarred skin, waiting to stop.

When he thinks of stopping, Emilie reminds him of the cost. There she is, sleeping in her sarcophagus made of glass and white and comfort, waiting for him to guide her back.

* * *

She remembers nothing.

 _Devotion,_ she says like a prayer, a mantra, a wish to the gods, is what keeps her going. The feelings in her are nothing. She _feels_ nothing. Heartless. 

Even when his lips trace the edges of her cheeks, kissing away the tears and the regret. Even when the purple of her bruises darkens with his touch. Even when she painfully aches for softer hands and fingernails drawing constellations on her skin.

Even when he calls Emilie’s name as he unravels, as he lies above her, as he unfurls and lets her receive everything he has to give.

* * *

The mirror reflects pale purple and bright pink, sharp cheekbones, full lips. It _stings_ that she looks nothing like Emilie when the skies of Paris were blessed with _Paonne_.

(She remembers nothing, so this sadness is alien to her.)

 _Mayura_ is a different feeling from _Paonne_ and _Mariposa_. She feels tired and lifeless and full of rage. Her arms are heavy with the weight of Emilie’s soul and her heart is overflowing with guilt and rage and love.

It should be _Papillon_ carrying this weight, not _Mayura,_ so why does it feel like Nathalie should do it for him anyway?

* * *

Every day, Nathalie feasts, greedy, and voracious in her appetite. _Mayura_ clings like a parasite, content to eat away at her remaining humanity. Her breaths are shorter and she always feels ill enough that Gabriel has taken notice and deluded himself into latching onto _her._

And every day is spent in his presence, whether awake or asleep. Whether working or not. 

Maybe she regrets all that time spent with this grieving man.

She reminds herself, constantly, nightly, when she stares at Gabriel’s sleeping form, at the only time he finds peace, that Emilie is the only one. That Emilie is—

* * *

The gods once said that they do not care.

But they find humor in everything. When all is said and done, when the Miraculous are in _Papillon’s_ hands and when he summons them with the relief of a goal finally achieved, they laugh in his face.

They laugh as _Papillon_ attempts the impossible. They laugh as _Mayura_ stares, recognition clear in her eyes. 

They laugh as _Papillon_ tells them his wish; as they echo that a wish spoken a second time cannot be granted; as they watch his world crumble beneath his feet.

They only laugh and laugh and laugh.

**Author's Note:**

> hmu @ telmes!


End file.
